


Any Second Now

by rutobuka



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Female Bilbo Baggins, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/pseuds/rutobuka
Summary: "Gandalf’s words echoed in her mind, and she was surprisingly thankful for them: she wouldn’t be the same, if she ever came back."





	Any Second Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrilbikini (liasangria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MITH!! Or mithday, if you will.
> 
> This fic was made with the format of mithrilbikini's own "As Every Color Illuminates" as inspiration! I loved the whole illustrated text feel, and I really hope it's enjoyable!
> 
> Mith had suggested more lesbians, more poly, and more trans characters, so I thought of obliging all of those at once :3
> 
> As usual, thank Jesus for Mcmanatea and her lovely beta skills! And thank you hiddenkitty for the lovely suggestions, as well!

Bag End felt unnaturally silent when Bilbo woke up. The dwarves had probably left at sunup, as their lovely lyrics promised last night. Cautiously walking the wide round corridors of her home, Bilbo confirmed that she was indeed alone. As the mistress of her smial, she felt relief. Gandalf had brought nothing but trouble, with his talk of adventure.

But oh, how that word resonated in her very core? A quest for lost treasure! A dwarven prince and his loyal company! It was as if those burly folk had jumped right out of one of the books her father used to read to her before bedtime, or the stories her mother would turn to song while they washed the linens. The thought made her throat tighten with grief and longing.

Without knowing how she got there, Bilbo was clawing through her over-full wardrobe in search of a leather backpack big enough to fit a change of clothes and food. How many underpants should she bring? Would they have time to do laundry? She should pack soap, in any case.

Bilbo’s eyes snapped to the corsets and the stuffing she wore with them. They could barely be seen among the many colorful skirts which she would have to leave behind. It was normal for female hobbits to wear trousers, Bilbo repeated to herself while rolling them tightly into her pack. It would be fine.

For once in her life, running between the green hills of Hobbiton didn’t bring the hot wash of shame for bringing attention upon herself. Gandalf’s words echoed in her mind, and she was surprisingly thankful for them: she wouldn’t be the same, if she ever came back.

 

* * *

 

There was no point in lying to herself: Bilbo had always known she wasn’t a warrior, or fit for any sort of athletic business, really. If she had to be honest, Bilbo thought that the journey to the Lonely Mountain would face hindrances such as weather or food rationing. She was partially right, since those problems did arise, but they were minor inconveniences compared to the scramble of running from orcs.

But she never imagined nearly falling to her death (and being yelled at for it); having to endure the crossing of the Misty Mountains by _actually_ falling into the territory of a dreadful slimy creature; or having to cling onto a tree and throw flaming pinecones at ferocious wargs.

Nor had she imagined being pulled into a hug by Thorin himself, who had criticized her so. She couldn’t fathom being commended just for swinging her puny sword at a foe such as Azog the Defiler, but it undid the knot of anxiety and unwelcome that had tangled in her stomach. The sight of the company cheering and smiling at her, while being crushed against that wide chest, was thoroughly humbling.

She and Thorin had stood side by side atop the carrock, while looking at the faint outline of Erebor. “Our home,” he’d told her.

Their descent from the plateau was just as tense as their path leading up to it. Thorin was clearly injured: he limped and tripped, and Bilbo could only relax once Dwalin ducked under one of Thorin’s arms and half-carried him to safety. Despite his grumblings and dismissals, Thorin was laid on his back as soon as they reached the bottom, face ashen, and didn’t seem strong enough to stand back up. So when Óin kneeled down to examine the prince’s wounds, it became clear that they had to set up camp.

Efficient as always, the dwarves spread a cot for the wounded, and lit a fire under the safety of an overhanging boulder. Balin loudly sighed, and prayed that they wouldn’t be found out by the enemy. The younger dwarves foraged around the settlement, and Bilbo stole a few berries from Kíli to quiet down her uneasy, empty belly. She couldn’t keep still or focus on any task, always glancing at the wall of wide shoulders surrounding Thorin’s form. After some loud argument in their native tongue, Óin got up with the help of Dwalin. Bilbo caught glimpses of blood being washed from the medic’s hands, and gulped.

It was serious, then. Was Thorin going to die? Bilbo’s heart sank, but she felt the need to be nearby, in case they needed her help. She knew nothing of healing, yet was already sitting on the mossy ground next to the prostrate prince before she could doubt herself. In Thorin’s apparent slumber, his brow was unfurrowed, lifting the constant air of disapproval that permeated his face.

“Dwalin…?”

Bilbo jumped slightly at the deep sound of Thorin’s voice. “No, it’s Bilbo. Dwalin’s gone to aid Óin, I think.”

Thorin groaned, his large palm hovering over his front. There were dark, wet puncture marks on his clothes and mail, forming the shape of a beast’s bite.

“Oh, dear. Can I do anything to help? I could help you disrobe to make Óin’s work quicker.” Bilbo squatted closer, fumbling with jacket pockets for her cravat to wipe Thorin’s clammy forehead with.

Upon hearing her words, Thorin’s eyes opened, and Bilbo felt herself being pierced and analyzed by a stony glare. Before being able to understand, Bilbo was called into action by the pained grunts leaving Thorin’s throat while he stubbornly tried to lift his torso.

“Do it.”

Her hands flew around his body, trying to find a way to simultaneously hold him up while hooking underneath the first layer of clothing. They were all heavy and far too long, making the process awkward, and Bilbo’s fingers accidentally snagged in his mane of hair a few times, but it was working. It was odd to see Thorin without his furs and leather armor; it made him look less angular, and so very vulnerable. His undershirt was made of some soft cotton material, dyed (or stained) gray, the fabric gone almost transparent around his armpits, but soaked completely red around the bulge of his stomach. It made Thorin wince, causing Bilbo to hiss in sympathy, when she had to peel the wet shirt off, and pull it from inside his trousers.

Bilbo pulled the last layer up without preamble, but the sight of round breasts underneath made her freeze, and shove the fabric down again in a flash.

“I… You! I didn’t know. I’m sorry!” Bilbo blurted, not knowing where to look.

Her eyes evaded Thorin’s, and locked onto the group of companions huddled around the fire. Dwalin and Óin were still otherwise occupied, apparently boiling rags. Bilbo was equally relieved and mortified that she wouldn’t be interrupted during this uncomfortable conundrum.

The moment of silence made her realize that Thorin’s breathing had also quickened, and a glance told her that the dwarf’s cheeks were ruddy. Had she made it even more awkward for both of them? Thorin could be feeling embarrassed. She couldn’t really tell.

Bilbo knew nothing of Thorin, in fact. Had she assumed Thorin’s gender because of their clothes, their beard? Was Thorin… different, like Bilbo?

Clearing her throat, Bilbo took courage to look at Thorin’s eyes. All she could read was intensity, defiance, fear. “Forgive me. I… I never bothered to ask.”

What feels like an eternity went by. Thorin finally blinked, their gaze falling on Bilbo’s angular throat, on her padded chest, then finally coming back up. Instead of making her feel weighed, it oddly felt like recognition. Thorin was showing that they could read Bilbo.

“I should have trusted you sooner, and I apologize.” Thorin’s rough hand rested on Bilbo’s, over the stains of blood, and the uncovered secrets beneath clothes. “We women ought to keep each other safe, from now on.”

Bilbo was obnoxiously pushed to the side by Óin, but even that didn’t serve to wipe the elated smile from her face.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was never entirely filling during their trek. From Bilbo’s highest-ranking meal, it quickly became one of the most disappointing ones. It wasn’t even the cook’s fault, whoever it was that night. She often offered her skills, but the group was constantly out of basic supplies, and would have to settle for some sort of watery soup. It warmed their bellies and gave them nourishment, which served its purpose. But Bilbo would constantly go to sleep with her own stomach rumbling, nonetheless.

During one of those suffering evenings, Bilbo discovered a solution. If the company had the access to a small pond or river, they’d stop and wash. She would always wait for a moment to bathe in solitude, and it took her several weeks to realize she could sneak out and gather wild berries and fruits in that time window.

The quest had been slowed to a halt, now that they had to wait for the wounded to heal, so there was more than enough time to relieve herself in peace, and get nicely cleaned up.

Soap and towel in hand, Bilbo strolled around in the woods, mouth full of wild strawberries. She sat by the riverbank, slowly dunking her feet in the gelid water while removing her clothes. It wasn’t as comfortable as the tub back in Bag End, but after the last few days, any sort of bath would do. The river wasn’t too wide, and she chose a shallow pool to soak in. Getting her underwear swept in the current had happened more than once for her to risk going deeper, not to mention the fear of drowning.

Her toenails were crusted with mud, not having been able to properly bathe since Rivendell; her trousers still had specks of Thorin’s blood, and black stains that were a mixture of soot and possibly orc blood; and her hair had sand and grime from the entire Middle Earth in it, she thought. The excitement of being finally clean clouded her senses, and only after she was halfway through washing her trousers did she hear splashing nearby.

Several stiff moments passed. Bilbo strained her ears to hear past the babbling water.

“...Here, sit down. Let me...”

The other person grunted. “I’m capable of bathing by myself, Dwalin.”

“Fine.” Dwalin’s laughter sounded dry. “I’ll just be here washing your bloody clothes. Literally.”

“I’m… Dwalin. I’m sorry.” Thorin’s voice was sweeter than Bilbo had ever heard it. “I worry about time. We should be moving if we want to reach the secret door by Durin’s day. I shouldn’t be treating you this badly; you’re the one taking care of me.”

“Am I really?”

“What do you mean?”

The hot afternoon air was quickly turning into a cold breeze against her skin, but Bilbo couldn’t make herself resume her washing. Although it was clearly a private conversation, something told her that any noise of her departure could ruin the moment for her bathing neighbours.

Someone clicked their tongue, and the sound of scrubbing and splashing could be heard.

“What is it, Dwalin? I would have you tell me.” Soft, yet decisive, Thorin’s voice filled the evening air.

“I didn’t take care of you, did I? I couldn’t save you. I stood there, and watched as the burglar did my job. I…”

Bilbo’s ears perked at this.

“I was paralyzed. My limbs went cold at the sight of Azog above your body. _I don’t…_ ” Dwalin’s voice trailed into a hurt sob.

A splash, and soft shushing.

She didn’t know whether to hide and wait for them to finish their conversation, or to quickly and silently flee the river. The cool night wind was rustling the leaves loudly enough for her to scrub the remaining articles of clothes, and she shouldn’t abandon the opportunity to do so, her mind told her. But, being frank with herself, she felt like an intruder in more ways than one, and that sapped her energy to do anything.

Did she accidentally ruin something in Thorin and Dwalin’s friendship? It didn’t take long accompanying the dwarves for her to see that they were more than simple companions. A devoted knight and his princess, more like.

“I’m here. We’re both here.” Thorin could barely be heard. “It made me glad to know that we could count on all of our companions, at that time. Without the help of all, we wouldn’t be so lucky.”

“I know, I know. I’m just being…” Dwalin’s voice was stuffy. “Anyway, I saw you talking to the burglar.”

Bilbo felt herself blanching.

“Does she know about us?”

A soft chuckle. “What, that we’re dwarrowdams? She knows I am, now. But if not even she recognized it until last night, I feel more confident in our kin’s skill to disguise.”

_‘We?’_

“That is a relief. Any additional protection against the monstrousness of men is good enough for me.”

The hobbit couldn’t focus on their conversation after such a befuddling dialogue. Thorin was a woman, but Dwalin surely...  
  
A loud thud against stone startled Bilbo. Slowly standing up in curiosity and alarm, she peered over the ragged rocks dividing their bathing spots. It was difficult to tell what was going on, but a huff and a moan told her the context of it.

Unable to look away, she blinked in confusion at their entangled limbs, but especially at Dwalin’s swollen chest.

It couldn’t be.

Bilbo could hear her father tutting at her impropriety, but she squinted through the dimness to watch Thorin’s hand press against muscled flesh and slide towards Dwalin’s front. The short, sliding gesture confirmed what Bilbo needed to know.

 

In the end, she sat in the freezing water far longer than necessary. It was so dark by the time Bilbo returned to the camp, she had to hang her clothes by the dying fire. In the (relative) silence of the evening, she laid in her tough makeshift bed, thinking.

One day, she was nothing but a burden, and not permitted to know anything about the lives of those leading the quest. The next, she discovered that not only was her leader a woman, but also in a relationship with a female knight.

Nothing had prepared her for such news. She never shared the same personal routine as them. It was no wonder Bilbo knew absolutely nothing of her companions, save Bofur, who was much chattier than most. They were probably not even dwarves, for all she knew!

Biting on her now clean nails, Bilbo tried to make reason of her chaotic thoughts. What hurt her the most, she concluded, was initially assuming she had shattered Thorin’s relationship with Dwalin. Considering how intimate and passionate they were afterwards, Bilbo could rationally assume they could solve their issues. That were most likely internal, rather than caused by a mere hobbit. What sort of damage could she ever cause, particularly to such grand figures as they?

The view of the mossy dark ceiling went blurry as she shed bewildered tears.


End file.
